


Some Wrong That I've Done

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Dom/sub, Dominance, Enemas, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Submission, Time War Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master questions the Doctor about the Time War. And finally takes what he's been waiting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Wrong That I've Done

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming; it took me forever to get this one done for some reason. Last of a three-part series of fics beginning with [My Sins Are All I Have](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1232491) and [That's How We Have Our Fun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1950525). Enjoy!

Ice clinks against crystal as the Master raises a tumbler to his lips. He breathes in the distinctive aroma of a good Scotch, allowing the smoky notes to tickle his nostrils, then takes a swallow. The amber liquid burns his throat and warms his belly as he savours what is already his second round of the evening.

His poor Doctor must really be feeling the effects of that cleansing.

The Master leans back in his chair with a satisfied smirk, closing his eyes and lazily swirling the drink around in its glass. He’s on the verge of dozing off when the soft creak of a door cuts through the haze. The Master’s eyelids fly open just in time to see the Doctor emerge from the bathroom, a towel clutched self-consciously around his waist.

“Come here,” he beckons with an impatient sigh. He straightens up and waits for the Doctor to cross the distance between them, holding out a hand to stop him just a few feet from the chair. _Oh yes_. _Now it’s time to have some fun…_

“Are you all cleaned out, Doctor?”

The Doctor glares at him with blistering indignation and the Master can only laugh in amusement. Flushing his insides seems to have only made him more ornery. _So much for humility_. Well, we’ll see about that.

“Did I give you permission to cover yourself?”

The Doctor’s grip on the towel tightens but he doesn’t react. The subtle gesture doesn’t escape the Master. He drags the moment out just to watch the Doctor squirm. He’s trying to hide his fear, and that’s always the best part.

“Well?” the Master demands. His eyes skim up and down the Doctor’s body, from head to toe and back again, before flashing him a devious grin. “I’m waiting.”

The Doctor finally releases his grip and the towel falls with a damp _thud_. The Master _tsks_ in disapproval at his lack of manners. “Pick that up,” he orders, looking on as the Doctor gingerly bends forward. He almost misses the grimace of pain that flickers across his old friend’s face. It’s a moment not intended for his eyes, but that little expression is just enough to stoke his arousal. _No. Not yet…_

“Go hang it on the rack to dry. Then hurry back.”

The Doctor complies with a meek nod, disappearing once again into the adjoining bathroom. When he returns, the Master gestures towards the bed, where a knee-length silk robe has been laid out. It’s a bright violet, his preferred colour for the Doctor. He can’t help but have an affinity for the symbolism.

“Put that on and take a seat,” the Master instructs, indicating the chair directly across from his own. The Doctor gratefully does as he’s told, wrapping the garment protectively around his body before lowering himself onto the cushion. Then he waits quietly, unsure what to expect from this apparent act of kindness.

“Care for a drink?” the Master begins conversationally. “I have the best whiskey this planet has to offer. My own private reserve, in fact, right here on the Valiant. From tiny little Scotland of all places.”

The Doctor seems surprised by the offer. The Master’s impromptu shift in demeanor has thrown him off balance. “No…thank you,” he responds hesitantly. Hard liquor is the last thing he needs right now. The very thought of it makes his unsettled stomach lurch in protest. “Maybe just some water, please?”

The Master scoffs as he reaches for a pitcher on the side table. He pours a tall glass of water, adds a few ice cubes, and hands it to the Doctor before topping off his own half-empty Scotch. “You might want to reconsider,” he remarks with a grin. “You never know when I’ll be generous enough to offer again.”

“Would you want a drink after…. _that_?” the Doctor retorts bitterly.

The Master laughs. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

The Doctor scowls but says nothing. They sit in silence for several moments, each trying to predict the other’s next move. Then the Master raises his glass with an ironic flourish. “To us,” he declares solemnly. “The last of the Time Lords.” He takes a large swig and watches intently as the Doctor nurses his water. He’s brooding, the Master can tell, and that’s no fun at all. Time to get to the bottom of his old friend’s tortured conscience once and for all. He leans forward, elbows propped on his thighs, and fixes the Doctor with an inquisitive gaze.

“Do you regret it?” he asks softly. “Gallifrey?”

“I had no choice.” The Doctor says it almost without thinking. It’s become his standard refrain, and the Master isn’t having it. Not this time. He sighs audibly but refuses to let the matter drop. His Doctor isn’t allowed to keep secrets. He really should know the rules by now.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

The Doctor bows his head, fidgeting as he ponders an answer. The Master will know if he doesn’t tell the truth. Other beings pity him, don’t ask too many questions. But the Master has always been able to see right through his many façades. Now he expects the Doctor to lay his soul bare, whether for judgment or empathy it’s impossible to tell. So he takes a deep breath, steels himself, and reluctantly confesses the one truth he never wanted to acknowledge.

 “No.”

“Why not?” the Master presses quietly.

“It had to be done,” the Doctor explains. As if that feeling of justification will make everything okay. But they both know it will never be enough. The Doctor’s throat goes dry and he takes a large swallow of water before continuing. “Although what I do regret, sometimes, is having survived it myself.”

“Sometimes?” the Master echoes, quirking an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to die,” the Doctor admits. When he finally meets the Master’s gaze, his eyes are moist with tears. But there’s also a fire in them, a spark of purpose that’s been missing for a long time. “Because there’s still so much _I_ can do.”

“Then what is it you need to atone for, Doctor?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

The Master is quiet as he contemplates this new revelation. The Doctor can’t articulate the torment within his own psyche, the endless cycle of guilt and arrogance. But the Master knows him better than anyone, has accessed the most intimate outposts of his mind, and his next words are as much for his own confirmation as for the Doctor. “Do you need to be punished just for being _alive_?”

The Doctor swallows hard. He should have died with the Time Lords, _expected_ to die with them, but a part of him is thankful to have been spared. And he now realizes that survival will always carry a high price. His sins have condemned him to a perpetual quest for absolution, with the Master chosen to make sure he never stops paying for them. But there is yet another betrayal the Doctor must acknowledge, and his old friend’s next question makes the blood in his veins freeze like ice.

“And do you regret leaving me?”

“I didn’t want to!” the Doctor chokes out. “But we can still have a future together. I’m all yours now. No one else has to die.”

“That’s so _sweet_ ,” the Master sneers. “But you already had a chance to play God. Now it’s _my_ turn.”

“Please just _listen_ to me!”

“Did I give you permission to speak out of turn?” the Master rebukes sharply. “Stand up. Now!”

The Doctor rises from the chair with a surprising air of dignity. He will accept his punishment, whatever it may be, because he has given the Master that prerogative. After all, it was his decision to repent, to seek forgiveness. And he hopes that one day the Master will allow him to forgive in return. Even if neither one of them will ever truly be able to accept that forgiveness.

“Take it off.”

The Doctor slowly unties the silk belt, allowing the airy fabric to billow open around him. He removes first one arm and then the other before carefully laying the garment over the back of the chair. He won’t be making the same mistake twice. He then brings himself up to his full height, lowers his eyes, and waits.

“Now then,” the Master instructs curtly, “on the bed, hands and knees, ass in the air.”

As the Doctor gets into position, it’s obvious that he’s trying to hide the lingering discomfort from their little procedure. But the Master has been waiting days to satisfy his carnal appetites, given the Doctor a chance to recover from the lashing, and there will be no further delays. The Master grabs an overstuffed pillow and absentmindedly slides it under the Doctor’s head before leaning down to murmur in his ear.

“I hope you took care to clean yourself up for me,” he whispers.

“Naturally,” the Doctor responds with a hint of spirit. “It would be rude of me to neglect that!”

The Master is unable to suppress a grin as he climbs up behind his old friend. “Show me,” he purrs silkily. And there it is, that false air of modesty the Doctor puts on whenever he’s truly uncomfortable. “M-Master?”

“You heard me,” the Master smirks. “Spread ‘em.”

The Doctor hesitates for a long moment before reaching around to part himself. He quivers at the sudden exposure; it’s all he can do to keep from curling up into a mortified ball. The Master’s gaze is smoldering heat, predatory eyes raking over his naked backside like a poker over embers. Nervous sweat begins to pool along his brow when suddenly, there’s a warm, probing wetness the likes of which he hasn’t felt for centuries. The Doctor’s whole body tenses and his hands instinctively fly to cover his flushed face. “Wh-what are you doing?” he gasps.

“Just getting to know you again, Doctor,” the Master replies matter-of-factly.

His tone is feigned innocence as he takes charge of holding the Doctor open, spreading him wide and lightly flicking his tongue against the tiny hole. He is indeed clean, mild soap with a touch of sweetness. And his reluctance makes it _oh so much better_! The Master laughs breathlessly and watches goose pimples rise up on the Doctor’s pale skin. He flattens his tongue and licks with broad strokes, moving lower to tease the Doctor’s perineum as he waits for the muscles to relax. The Master knows he’s good at this; it’s a skill he really should utilize more often. It was always a fun activity back in their younger days.

He gradually shifts his focus to the Doctor’s balls, taking first one and then the other between his lips and sucking gently. The tactic works. The Doctor begins to grow hard, letting out a faint gasp as the Master briefly teases the base of his cock. But his embarrassment quickly returns when that wicked tongue once again trails along his crack, tracing deliberate circles around his entrance and slowly beginning to work its way inside.

“M-Master, please _don’t_ …” he moans softly. The shame of it is more than he can bear. But the Master’s tongue presses on, coaxing its way past the tight ring of muscle and setting his nerve endings alight. It’s been so long since he’s been taken like this; the sensation is unlike any other, but he remembers the intensity like it was yesterday. It’s the Master’s way of claiming him in the most intimate way imaginable.

“But this pleases me, Doctor,” the Master replies with a mock pout. “And I know you _hate_ how good it makes you feel.”

He pushes in deeper, slowly fucking the Doctor with his tongue, savouring the musky sweet taste of him. His hot body clenches and relaxes exquisitely, unsure whether to fight or surrender. The Master’s cock is now achingly hard, and he fumbles to unzip his trousers without interrupting their careful build-up. When his cock is free, he strokes it languidly with one hand while holding the Doctor open with the other.

“Tell me, my little Theta,” he taunts, “will I even need lube when I fuck you?”

The Doctor whimpers at hearing his boyhood name. He’s always been sentimental. “I guess that’s a no, then?” the Master muses with a chuckle. He scrapes his teeth along the curve of the Doctor’s ass, making him tremble in anticipation, then nips sharply at the crinkled pink skin around his entrance. His old friend yelps in pain and surprise as the Master spits onto the puckered hole and unexpectedly shoves two fingers inside.

"Do you remember our first time?" the Master murmurs, leaning in close so that his breath caresses the back of the Doctor's neck. "You were so nervous. I really had to take my time with you." 

"Of course I remember.” The Doctor’s words are a plaintive sigh as he tries not to wince at the roughness of the Master's fingers. "I trusted you to make it okay."

"But you no longer need—or deserve—that courtesy, do you?" 

"It doesn't have to be like this," the Doctor pleads. 

“You left me, _Theta_ ,” the Master reminds him icily. “So you don’t get to have it nice and gentle anymore. Just be thankful for whatever I _will_ deign to give you.”

The Doctor hisses softly as the fingers are abruptly withdrawn. As if to punctuate his contempt, the Master then spits into his palm, gives himself a few brusque strokes, and presses the head of his cock against the Doctor’s ass. He pushes in roughly, eliciting a ragged sob of betrayal, and immediately begins to thrust. Using the Doctor like this in the wake of an enema is undeniably cruel. But his body is so wonderfully _tight_ , and the Master can’t hold back any longer.

"I _do_ like to make you suffer though," he adds. "It suits you rather nicely." 

And there is no doubt the Doctor _is_ suffering. His cheeks are stained with tears and he whimpers in agony as the Master grabs a fistful of tousled hair and pulls his head back. He scrambles to retain position, angling his hips in a futile attempt to make the penetration less painful. The Master chuckles at the Doctor’s struggling, but decides to extend him just the tiniest bit of mercy.

“Go ahead and touch yourself,” he orders. “I want to see you get hard for me.”

The Doctor refuses to obey; he is far too mortified to indulge the Master’s sadistic pathology. But his insides are still in turmoil, and he wants nothing more than relief from the overwhelming discomfort. And the stimulation will at least provide some welcome distraction. _Don’t fight_. _Make it easier on yourself._

“C’mon,” the Master growls, fingers bruising the Doctor’s hips as he slams into him over and over again, “show me how much you like it when I hurt you…”

The Master rolls the tip of his cock over the Doctor’s prostate, giving him an extra incentive to obey. And sure enough, the Doctor finally takes his own cock in hand, hesitantly stroking up and down. The Master rewards him with another fleeting brush against the sweet spot before ramming in hard and deep. Best not to let the Doctor have _too_ much fun. He grabs the other man’s hips and pulls him onto his shaft, all the way to the hilt, fucking him relentlessly as he feels a climax start to build. _So good, Doctor. So very good._ The Doctor tries to keep up, accelerating his own strokes, but it’s not enough.

“Please no more!” he cries out miserably.

“Oh stop whining!” the Master admonishes. “Or I’ll never touch you again.”

 _Just hold on a little longer. It will all be over soon._ The Doctor grits his teeth as the Master’s rhythm grows steadily more erratic. But instead of the inevitable finish, his ass is left empty when the massive cock is suddenly withdrawn. He hisses at the clumsiness of the gesture. “Don’t want to dirty you up again so soon,” the Master pants hoarsely. “Now on your feet!”

The Doctor groans as he struggles to stand on unsteady legs. But he isn’t upright for long. The Master hungrily pushes him to his knees, grabs him by the hair, and shoves a leaking cock past his lips and straight to the back of his throat. The Doctor can taste himself there, salty and sweet, and within seconds, hot liquid shoots directly to the pit of his stomach.

The Master holds the Doctor firmly in place as he shudders the last of his release, relishing his fight for breath, then pulls out of his mouth and looks down with a sated grin. The kneeling Time Lord is shaky and sweating profusely, all traces of arousal long gone. The Master regards him silently for a few moments, then reaches out to caress his flushed cheek.

“I’ve been overindulgent with you lately, Doctor,” he remarks pensively. “And I believe it’s caused you to forget your place. So, to help you remember, you will sleep on the floor tonight. Naked, at the foot of my bed.”

The Doctor looks as if he’s about to protest, but the Master puts a finger to his swollen lips to hush him. “Who am I to you?” he asks pointedly. He looks into the other man’s eyes and waits for the answer to come. He’s willing to be patient, but it doesn’t take the Doctor long to respond.

“My Master.”

“Good boy.”

The Master decides to keep him on his knees for a little while longer and heads to the wardrobe to change into his nightclothes. He undresses slowly, knowing all the while that the Doctor is stealing glances at his body. He should punish him for the impertinence. The Master smiles mischievously to himself and prepares to call for a pallet bed. Perhaps he’ll leave his old friend on display for the guards to see when they arrive. How degrading that would be! His smile widens as he slips into the welcoming silk pajamas. _Oh Doctor. If you only knew what you do to me…_


End file.
